by A. W. Gray
Now Rusty threw a wide-eyed look at Goldman. Goldman folded his arms and said, “I’d watch myself, Bino, if I was you. Dammit, I was afraid that girl … ”
Bino’s jaw thrust forward. “Watch myself how, Marv? Come on. As for Carla Carnes, before you decide to really screw her around, you’d better hear me out.”
Goldman puckered his mouth. “You might be painting yourself into a corner, running your mouth.”
Bino lifted his coattails and put his hands on his waist. “Come to think about it, maybe I am. It’s my corner, though, so let me paint.” He turned to Rusty. “Your buddy Mr. Goldman had the body moved. Sounds implausible unless you really know old Marv.” Now he looked at the FBI agents. “Was that you guys’ job, moving the body two hundred and fifty miles and dumping it in that canal, and then calling up the Houston people to pinpoint the location for ’em? Somebody on the federal payroll did it.”
The two agents looked at each other and grinned. Goldman slammed his desk drawer.
“The whole thing, Rusty,” Bino said, “was to get you out of Dallas County’s jurisdiction. In Dallas, Goldman knew you were the nuts to make bail, but down there in Houston the county will play ball any way the feds want them to. He had it figured right, too, Rusty. You folded like an accordion.
“But Rusty didn’t kill Rhonda, Marv. The judge himself did it. Figured out that all the things he’d been saying in the throes of orgasm could get him in trouble. Which was why Rusty was pimping for his own wife anyway, to get something on the old boy. Jesus Christ, you people make me sick to my stomach.”
Goldman ignored the compliment; the federal prosecutor was the only guy Bino knew who actually thrived on insults. “The judge couldn’t’ve,” Goldman said. “We had guys on him.”
“Oh, shit, Goldman,” Bino said, “he hired it done. So now you’ve pulled all this for nothing. The state’s going to get your judge before you can lay a hand on him, and you’re not going to have anybody left to prosecute.”
“The hell I’m not,” Goldman said. “There’s still your cop friend. Clinger.”
Bino sat back down. “Haven’t you been listening? You’re going to drop the charges against Tommy, which you were already planning to do, but there’s going to be no substitute indictment. Tommy walks, which he should have all along.”
Now Nolby sat up and took notice.
“And what is it,” Goldman said, “that’s going to force me to do all this?”
Bino grinned. “Carla Carnes.”
“That bimbo?” Goldman said.
“Watch it with the insults,” Bino said. “She’s the one with the key to your heart. You almost got her killed, you know, having old Hazel pop off about her so Bryson would come unglued. He did, too, and Carla’s mad enough over it to stop dating you. I’ve been blowing all this smoke, but I’ve sure as hell got no proof you did all this. Carla does, though. She’s the one that found Rhonda and turned the situation over to you.”
Goldman looked at the ceiling. “Christ, the people you have to deal with in law enforcement.”
“Yeah,” Bino said, “including you. Take it from me, Marv, you’re going to do two things. You’re going to drop the charges against Tommy, and you’re going to keep your deal with Carla Carnes, including putting her hubby on the street. You crawfish on either of those deals, the newspapers and television are going to have a field day. ‘marv moves body,’ how’s that for a headline?”
“What makes you so sure,” Goldman said, “that the state can put anything on Bryson? Assuming we can’t, aside from the payoffs.”
“Because the state’s got Bryson’s contract killer, Marv. He’s the one getting the good deal out of all this, the hit man. Oh.” Bino pointed a finger. “One more thing, the thing that’s really going to do your plans in. You ready?”
“You’re doing the talking, my bunny-haired friend.”
Bino touched the top of his head. “Bunny-haired friend. Hey, that’s pretty good. He’s a federal protected witness, Marv.”
“Who is? We didn’t promise to put either of these guys in the program. I don’t think they’ll be in any danger.”
Bino paused, stumped for an instant, then said, “I’m not talking about Rusty or Nolby, Marv. The contract killer. He’s the one, been doing one hit right after another all the time you nice federal folks were protecting him.”
Goldman sank down in his chair. His complexion went slightly green.
“That’s how the judge knew about the guy, Marv, through the witness program. Now, you want all that out for public consumption?”
Goldman looked down. “How do I know it’s true?”
“It’s true, okay, and you’ll verify that the second I walk out that door.” Bino settled down. “If you use your head, though, Marv, you might be able to salvage a little something out of this.”
“Oh?” Goldman said. “How’s that? According to you, we’re out in left field on the entire investigation.”
“You could go back to square one,” Bino said, “and prosecute this guy”—he pointed at Nolby—”and this guy”—now pointing at Rusty—”who are the two bad dudes in the first place. You can get both of them on the payoffs, and that’ll get you something for all your trouble. All you got to do with Nolby is have the whores, pimps, and whatnot finger Nolby instead of Tommy Clinger. And, if you live up to your deal with her, Carla Carnes can give you Rusty, hands down. Oh, yeah, there’s a state prosecutor Rusty’s been funneling money to, a guy named Arnold Bright. That’ll give you only three guys to prosecute instead of the three hundred or so you were planning to, but hey, any port in a storm. Ever think of doing a straight prosecution, Marv, without a bunch of hocus-pocus?”
Goldman perked up, looking interested.
Now Terry Nolby spoke up. “Wait a—” he croaked, then cleared his throat and said, “Wait a minute. I got a deal.”
Rusty glumly regarded the floor. “I thought I did, too.”
“I’ll have to look at the file,” Goldman said, “to see how firm those deals are.”
“Goddammit,” Nolby said, rising. “I need to see my lawyer.”
“Hell, he’s your lawyer,” Bino said, indicating Rusty. “Talk to him.”
Goldman smiled and yanked on his goatee. “You guys aren’t under arrest, so you aren’t entitled to Miranda warnings. Not yet.”
“Wait a minute,” Rusty said. “The stuff we’ve already told you. You’re not planning to use that. It’s protected under the deal.”
Goldman looked at the FBI agents. “You guys know about any deal with these two?”
One agent shrugged. “Not me.”
The other agent massaged both sides of his nose. “Me, neither.”
Rusty looked at Nolby. Nolby looked at Rusty. Both men’s jaws dropped. Goldman grinned at them. “What deal?” Goldman said.
Bino stood. “With my client out of the soup, none of the rest of this is any of my business. If you guys’ll excuse me, I’ve got someplace to go.”
“What makes you so sure,” Goldman said, “that the state can beat me to the punch on indicting the judge?”
Bino checked his watch. “Because your grand jury doesn’t meet until tomorrow. You’d have to bring charges in the next fifteen minutes, Marv. Otherwise you’re fucked, I’d have to say.”
The three Mountainites didn’t seem to have moved, stern faces set in granite, the woman between the men, seated on a bench outside the U.S. District courtroom. Their glares were directed to an adjacent bench, on which sat Larry Murphy along with Hardy Cole and Mac Strange. Murphy studied his lizard boots. His lips trembled. Cole returned the Mountainites’ stares while Mac Strange read the newspaper. As Bino approached. Cole nudged Strange and said something from the side of his mouth. The Mountainites looked ready to pray Hardy straight into Hell.
Bino stopped before the cultists, briefly wonderi
ng where the guys bought their stovepipe hats, and pointed toward the other bench. “Those guys aren’t telling dirty jokes, are they?” Bino said. The Mountainites now included Bino in their venomous glares. He grinned, went over and said to Cole, “If they’ve really got a pipeline to the Man Upstairs, you’ve had it. Thanks for waiting.’ He did a double take at Murphy. “Larry joined the force or something?” Murphy continued to tremble and watched the far wall.
Cole stood. “Naw, saves me some time. I got two guys to book, I see no need to make two trips to the jail. Old Larry here’s my pal, anyway, he’s not going to give me any trouble.” He glanced at the courtroom. “Besides, I want Bryson to see him.” He reached in his inside breast pocket, produced a warrant, and read it over.
Mac Strange got up and folded the newspaper under his arm. “You kept us long enough, Bino. You ready?” He looked at the Mountainites. “Or you got some more praying to do?”
The scene was like an old-time revival meeting, Mountainites in full Quaker dress jamming the courtroom pews and lining the walls. Bino had never seen Big Preacher Daniel in person before, but now understood why the Preacher was the leader of the flock. He had the shoulders of a Mack truck, and over his beard his eyes gleamed like Christ’s. Or Manson’s, Bino wasn’t sure. Big Preacher dwarfed his lawyers, a couple of guys named Eidson and Smart, both of whom Bino knew. The attorneys were average-size men, but alongside Big Preacher Daniel looked like a couple of midgets. As Cole, Bino, Strange, and Murphy trooped in, the Preacher surveyed the newcomers as if passing judgment, then returned his attention to the front of the courtroom. Lawyer Eidson recognized Bino and waggled his fingers. Bino smiled hello. He stopped near the railing gate behind Larry Murphy, with Cole and Strange bringing up the rear. In the media section, a Dallas Morning News reporter nudged a young lady from the Associated Press and pointed. Both reporters stared.
There was an FBI agent on the witness stand, answering questions from a slim female prosecutor. The prosecutor wore a straight gray dress. There was a rustling in the courtroom as the entourage marched down the aisle. The Assistant U.S.D.A. stopped in midquestion and turned. She looked more than a little annoyed.
Bryson was on the bench, his head cocked attentively, his thick white hair perfectly combed. He snapped his head around at the commotion and glared, first at Mac Strange, then at Hardy Cole, and finally at Bino. Finally the judge’s gaze fell on Larry Murphy.
Bryson’s face sagged as if made of Play-Doh. His cheeks collapsed; the bags under his eyes drooped even further. He removed his glasses and massaged his eyelids. Then he returned his attention to the witnesses, as if by carrying the testimony along he could make his troubles disappear. The judge boomed, “You were asking, Miss Hill?”
The prosecutor stayed rooted in her tracks. The witness adjusted the lapels on his coat.
“Miss Hill?” Bryson repeated.
Cole looked at Strange, who nodded. Then Hardy went through the gate and approached the bench, dragging handcuffs from his back pocket as he moved along.
Bryson favored the county cop with a challenging stare. “What is this?” the judge said.
Cole remained deadpan. “Edgar Bryson, you are under arrest for the murder-for-hire of Rhonda Benson. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”
Bryson put on his glasses and blinked owlishly.
“—can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, the court—”
Bryson looked around as if asking for help.
“—will appoint you one.” Cole raised the handcuffs and rattled them. “Let’s go, Judge. This is one time I hate doing this. And believe me, I don’t hate it very often.”
Bryson uttered an audible sob as Cole came around behind the bench. Cole drew the judge’s hands behind him to apply the cuffs. Brvson stammered, “My … robe. Maybe I should … ”
Cole stepped back. “Up to you, Your Honor.”
Bryson stiffened. “I’ll wear it.”
“Might not go good for you,” Cole said, “when the other prisoners see you in that outfit.”
“I said I’d wear it, officer.” Bryson lifted his chin and thrust his hands out behind him.
Cole shrugged, then rasped the bracelets onto Bryson’s wrists one after the other. He then led the judge around the bench, through the bullpen area, and stood aside with the gate open. Bryson locked gazes with Larry Murphy for an instant, then looked at the floor. As he passed Bino, Bryson snapped, “Are you part of this charade, Mr. Phillips?”
Bino looked at Bryson’s feet, then slowly up until he and Bryson were eye to eye. “I guess I am, Judge,” Bino said. “And I’ll tell you something, you can can the theatrics. I represent some pretty bad guys, Your Honor, but I am what I am, and I don’t pretend to be anything else. You and your religious bullshit … well, don’t expect any sympathy from me, is all I can tell you.”
Cole led Bryson away with Mac Strange and Larry Murphy falling in step behind. As the foursome exited the courtroom, one of the Mountainites, a short balding guy, stood in the aisle. “The Reverend Brother Preacher is saved, brothers and sisters,” he shouted. “Hallelujah.”
In the silence that followed, Bino remained in the aisle near the celebrationer. Big Preacher Daniel stood at the defense table as if he’d just witnessed the Second Coming. Bino walked over to the happy flock member and looked down at the guy.
“Well, the salvation is probably temporary,” Bino said. “But for now, yeah. Amen, brother, pour it on.”
28
FOUR DAYS LATER BlNO HAD AN APPEARANCE IN FRONT OF JUDGE Hazel Burke Sanderson, to plead out a counterfeiter named Inky Briscoe. There wasn’t much to the hearing, Briscoe having suffered a federal raid while in the process of loading three bushel baskets of still-damp twenties into the rear of a van. Since his client had done three previous falls, Bino had very little to do in explaining the plea bargain process. Inky knew the ropes quite well, thank you. Bino found it distracting that during the judge’s pre-plea spiel, his client was murmuring the words in a whisper right along with old Hazel. To compound the problem, when she said, “Are you pleading guilty because you are guilty and for no other reason?” Inky snickered out loud. This brought both lawyer and client a glare from the bench which could melt tooth enamel. Bino shrugged at old Hazel, palms up, as if to say, “He’s the counterfeiter, I’m not,” then regretted his action as Judge Sanderson’s face turned ripe purple.
After old Hazel had accepted the guilty plea and set sentencing for six weeks hence, Bino turned to Inky Briscoe and extended his hand. “Sorry it couldn’t turn out better, Ink. You may be looking at as much as a dime.”
Briscoe, a short round man with a permanent squint, gave Bino a firm grip. “Nothin’ to that,” Briscoe said. “But, how ’bout doin’ me a favor?”
“If I can,” Bino said.
“I got the word from the marshals,” Briscoe said, “that they’re shippin’ me to Big Spring. The warden up there’s an old buddy of mine, so how ’bout callin’ him up. Tell him old Inky’s comin’ down. That way he’ll hold me a job in the cable factory, okay?”
Bino agreed, and Inky toddled off between two marshals, happy as a clam. Sometimes Bino wondered if guys like Inky Briscoe didn’t have the best of things. He smiled at Judge Sanderson—who snugged her Martha Washingtons up on her nose and ignored him—then strolled through the gate, up the aisle, and left the courtroom.
The arrest of a federal judge on murder charges had occupied the headlines for several days, and Goldman’s convening of a special grand jury to investigate corruption in the police department, the D.A.’s office, and the judicial system had drawn only moderate coverage. That Marv wasn’t grabbing all the attention pleased Bino and, he thought, was just as the situation should be for a change. On the afternoon of Edgar Bryson’s arrest, the feds had taken Rusty Benson, T
erry Nolby, and Assistant D.A. Arnold Bright into custody, which Bino further thought was exactly where the three guys belonged. The grand jury witnesses Goldman had subpoenaed were pimps and whores, some of whom Bino knew. He supposed that Carla Carnes would put in an appearance as well, but she wasn’t under subpoena. Bino figured that Goldman had kept his deal with her and that Carla would show up without any prompting. Big Preacher Daniel’s trial had been set off a couple of months, and the rumor was that old Hazel was going to be the Preacher’s new judge. God versus Godzilla, Bino thought. He nodded to a couple of lawyers he knew in the hallway, and strolled on toward the elevators, glad that Tommy and Molly Clinger had been on cloud nine all week, and that he’d been able to help them. Bino suspected that Terry Nolby’s job was Tommy’s for the asking. Whether or not Tommy wanted to remain a career policeman after what he’d been through was up to him.
Bino halted as a perky and familiar female voice said from behind him, “Hold it there, hoss.”
He turned. Carla bustled in his direction wearing a conservative charcoal suit and medium-heeled pumps, and she had a young man in tow. He was clear-eyed with a photogenic smile and dazzling dental work, and had shoulder-length brown hair, washed and brushed as though ready for an onstage appearance. Bino felt a twinge of apprehension.
Carla stopped and did a pirouette. “How ’bout it? Witness for the prosecution, huh?” she said. “Bino, meet Chris.” She grabbed the young man’s arm and tugged him over.
The guy extended his hand. “Hi. Carla’s—”
Bino exerted a medium grip. “Glad to—”
“—told me all about you,” the second C.C. finished.
Bino swallowed hard. “She has?”
Carla stepped quickly in between the two. “I told him all about, how you helped. You know, with Mr. Goldman and all?” Unseen by Chris, she threw Bino a saucy wink.
